


What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

by Sendnukes



Series: Hold My Hand, Let's Turn to Ash [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Drama, Enemies to Friends, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Identity Issues, M/M, Rare Pairings, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-30 12:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13951224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sendnukes/pseuds/Sendnukes
Summary: When Will goes missing, MacCready, Deacon, and Danse set out for the Capital Wasteland to find him, but nothing goes as planned.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the official part two to my Deacon/Mac love affair!

MacCready took a drag of his cigarette, eyes never leaving the distant place where the dirt path met the skyline. That spot had been empty for days, the only things dotting the horizon were the occasional bloodbug or a lone yao guai, pausing to sniff the air before lumbering away. 

 

MacCready blinked, his eyes burning with exhaustion. He stretched, feeling a familiar soreness in his muscles that usually only appeared when he had been looking down his sniper rifle for hours, unmoving. Now though, despite having been sitting in the guard post for the better part of two days, MacCready’s leg bounced rapidly up and down, his fingers drumming an agitated beat into his thigh.  _ Where was he? _

 

“Come on down from there, killer.”

 

MacCready started, not having heard anyone approaching. When he realized who it was, he wasn’t surprised.

 

“Hey, Deeks,” he sighed, dragging his eyes away from the empty horizon to look down at the other man. 

 

“C’mon. You’ve been up there for  _ hours _ . I miss you,” he pouted. 

 

Mac sighed again. “I’ll be down soon.”

 

He could almost hear Deacon roll his eyes behind the sunglasses. “Fine, I’ll come up.”

 

MacCready shifted to allow Deacon to sit on the other overturned crate that served as a chair, chancing a quick look down the road. Nothing. Unsurprisingly, Deacon caught him looking.

 

“Mac, he’ll be back soon.”

 

MacCready shook his head. “I dunno, man. He shoulda been back by now. I’ve made that trip with him hundreds of times and it’s  _ never _ taken this long.”

 

Deacon reached over to tangle his fingers loosley in MacCready’s. He was taken aback by the physical contact; Deacon rarely showed his affection in public, something MacCready rarely minded. He must look worse than he thought. 

 

“You know, Will. He probably found a secret bunker full of desk fans and is going nuts.”

 

MacCready cracked a smile at that. “Maybe.”

 

Deacon squeezed his hand. “He gets distracted easily. There’s a hundred things he could be doing, Mac. Maybe he found another flying ship.”

 

“That didn’t happen,” MacCready grumbled, “I already told you I don’t believe you. Anyways, it’s been  _ two weeks _ . It shouldn’t take more than a day or two to get to Diamond City.”

 

“It totally did happen and I’m offended you don’t believe me. Maybe he’s off with Nick doing some detective bullshit.”

 

MacCready let his eyes flick back over to the horizon where the sun was beginning to set. “I guess.”

 

Deacon sighed quietly. “We can head out tomorrow.”

 

MacCready looked at him sharply. “What?”

 

Deacon wore the pained look of a long-suffering man, but Mac could see the ghost of a smile around his lips. “Diamond City. We can head there tomorrow. We’ll find Will playing Clue with Nicky and I won’t even tell him that you spent days fretting about him.”

 

MacCready snorted. “I’m not  _ fretting _ .”

 

“MacCready, love of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul, what you are doing is the definition of fretting.”

 

Mac rolled his eyes, giving Deacon a half-hearted kick. “Shut up.”

 

“Ooh, good one,” Deacon taunted, ducking expertly away before getting to his feet, “Come  _ on _ . Let’s go eat. And sleep. And shower. Because all of the above are things you  _ really _ need to do right now.”

 

MacCready glanced one last time at the empty road before conceding and dropping down from the guard post next to Deacon. 

 

“What’s Clue?” he questioned as they headed towards the main house.

 

Deacon grinned.

 

  * \- 



 

“No, MacCready, it can’t have been the sniper rifle because  _ there is no goddamn fucking sniper rifle in this game! _ ”

 

“This is crap,” MacCready grumbled, “Who the heck has a room just for books anyways?”

 

“I am officially never playing a board game with him again,” Piper declared, throwing up her hands.

 

“Try playing Scrabble with him,” Deacon remarked dryly, “All he does is spell out swear words.”

 

“Fu-screw both of you,” MacCready snapped, looking around for someone to back him up, but the only other people playing were Hancock, who was high enough that the ghoul probably forgot he was playing, and Danse, who he was pretty sure would rather eat his own power armor than back MacCready up. 

 

_ If Will was here, he’d back me up _ , MacCready thought petulantly, before his stomach twisted in concern.  _ Where the hell is he? _

 

“Have you heard anything from Diamond City recently?” he asked Piper, his growing unease taking over.

 

He sensed, more than heard, Deacon sigh. 

 

“No, not really. Why?”

 

MacCready tensed in frustration. “Uh, because Will, ya know the guy that saved all our asses and then  _ built us a place to live _ , has been missing for two weeks?”

 

The room grew quiet, Curie and Preston looked over from their spot on the couch, Cait paused in the doorway, Codsworth ceased his bobbing, even Dogmeat’s ears perked up. MacCready realized he might have been yelling. 

 

“Hey, MacCready,” Piper said gently, “He’s not missing.”

 

“No? Then what would you call it?” he snapped, “It should have taken him a couple days  _ max _ .”

 

“He’s just . . .” Piper gestured lamely with her hands, “late.”

 

MacCready scoffed. Looked around at his friends. “Seriously? That guy would be out looking for any one of you if you were an  _ hour _ late.”

 

Danse shuffled uncomfortably, looking at his feet, Preston rubbed the back of his neck, Curie mumbled something softly in French to herself. Even Deacon looked chagrined. 

 

“What do ya propose we do?” Cait asked from her position in the doorway, where she stood with her arms folded, “We can’t all go runnin’ after him.”

 

“No,” MacCready relented, “But some of us can. Deacon and I are heading to Diamond City in the morning. Who else is coming?”

 

There was a moment of silence before everyone’s hand shot up. MacCready sighed in exasperation. “Okay, well we can’t all go. Preston, you need to stay here. Sanctuary will fall apart without you. Curie, you should stay too, there should be a doctor here. Piper, you’re great with a pen but you’re a lousy shot, you stay too. So, that leaves Cait, Danse, and Hancock. Which one of you is coming with?”

 

“I will gladly accept,” Danse said, jumping up and standing nearly at attention.

 

“Hey, hey,” Hancock drawled, “Someone needs to stay here and pretend to be a tin can.”

 

Danse sneered at Hancock but Cait interrupted before he could retort. “Who said either of ya are goin’? If we’re throwing down, I’ll be the t’go.”

 

“Nice,” Deacon whispered, “Good going.”

 

MacCready glared at him. “Nobody said anything about ‘throwing down’, Cait. Hopefully this is recon, nothing more. Which, in that case,” he closed his eyes, heaving a deep sigh, “Danse should come with us.”

 

Hancock and Cait opened their mouths to protest, but MacCready pulled out his rarely used mayoral tone. “Shut it you, mungos! Me, Deacon, and Danse are leaving tomorrow morning. It’s settled.”

 

Cait looked murderous but closed her mouth. Hancock shrugged, turning back to his jet canister. Danse positively beamed. 

 

“Good choice, soldier.”

 

“Danse,” MacCready said through gritted teeth, “Shut. Up.”

 

“Hey,” Deacon whispered, sidling up to MacCready and leaning in close, “That was pretty hot, you being all commanding and shit. Think you could call me ‘mungo’ in bed later?”

 

MacCready rolled his eyes but gave Deacon a small smile. “Whatever you want,  _ mungo _ .”

  
  



	2. Two

The three men met the next morning early enough that the sun gave off little more than a watery yellow glow, not even warming the cracked ground yet. MacCready scowled when he saw Danse.

 

“Do you have to wear that?”

 

Danse looked down at his power armor. “Someone should be wearing the appropriate armor,” he sneered, giving Deacon and MacCready a once-over. 

 

MacCready looked at Deacon and saw Deacon was looking back at him. He had thought they were dressed fine, Deacon in the road leathers that MacCready secretly liked when he wore, and MacCready in his usual duster. 

 

“Fashion is clearly more important, Danse,” Deacon said lightly. 

 

Danse ignored him. “I’ve packed six stimpacks - two for each of us - six bottles of purified water, eighteen tins of Cram-”

 

“Oh my god, Danse, we get it. Did you bring enough ammo?” MacCready snapped.

 

“Yes,” Danse said stiffly, “I am a  _ Paladin _ , MacCready. I know how to pack in the most efficient manner.”

 

“Were,” MacCready corrected, feeling the usual irritation that Danse elicited in him rise, “You  _ were _ a Paladin.”

 

Danse flushed, his face contorting in anger and, possibly, hurt. Deacon gave MacCready a sharp look that almost seemed disapproving. 

 

“I may no longer be a Paladin,” Danse said low and dangerously, “But at least I’m not  _ still _ a mercenary with no morals.”

 

“Hey,” Deacon snapped, “Enough. Both of you.”

 

The two men glowered at each other a moment longer before turning away, letting the anger drain out of them. 

 

“Better,” Deacon said approvingly, “Now let’s go find Will.”

 

  * -



They made good time, all three of them used to covering long distances quickly. They didn’t speak much, each of them lost in their own thoughts. MacCready spent most of the the time worrying about Will, wondering what the hell could have happened. He wasn’t sure what the other ones were thinking about, but he had a distinct feeling that Deacon was singing show tunes to himself in his head. 

 

They stopped for lunch in some long-empty town. MacCready grimaced at the Cram that Danse handed him. Deacon slipped him some Mirelurk jerky, and MacCready smiled at him in gratitude, wished it was just the two of them so he could kiss Deacon, touch him,  _ anything _ . It wasn't like Danse didn’t know that they were together, and Deacon would let MacCready touch him, but he wouldn’t like it. It only made MacCready angrier at Danse. He caught Deacon watching him as they walked, realized his face was scrunched up in annoyance, old scowl firmly in place. Since him and Deacon had “the talk”, he’d been smiling more, laughing often. He was happy. For the first time in a long while, he was happy. He smiled at Deacon, trying to convey some of that and Deacon smiled back at him in a knowing sort of way.

 

  * \- 



 

Their trip was uneventful, with the three of them only encountering a handful of ghouls and some raiders. They arrived in Diamond City the next afternoon, tired and dusty but in good spirits. MacCready didn’t even get annoyed when Danse was rude to the Diamond City guards. All of that changed when they met up with Nick.

 

“Will?” Nick asked, paused with his cigarette halfway to his mouth.

 

“Yeah,” MacCready said, a sinking feeling in his stomach, “He headed over here almost two weeks ago. Hasn’t been back since.”

 

Nick shook his head, brow furrowed. “I saw him when he passed through, about, well, two weeks ago. He stopped the night he got here but I haven’t seen him since. I just assumed he headed back to Sanctuary.”

 

MacCready swore under his breath and even Deacon was starting to look concerned. He couldn’t see Danse’s expression since the man stood as far away from Nick as possible in the cramped office. 

 

“What exactly did he say before he left?” Nick asked, snapping into detective mode and it made MacCready feel better. If anyone could find Will it would be Nick.

 

“Uh,” MacCready wracked his brain trying to remember Will’s exact words, “He said he needed to come here to pick up something he left at Home Plate. Something for his gun, I think.”

 

“Have you checked over there?” Nick asked.

 

MacCready shook his head. “It’s locked up tight.”

 

Nick looked amused. “I wouldn’t think that would pose a problem with your guy here.”

 

MacCready barely resisted smacking himself in the forehead. “ _ Deacon _ .”

 

Deacon looked around, pointed to himself. “Me?”

 

“There better only be one of you,” Danse muttered from his corner. 

 

“You can get the door open,” MacCready said. It wasn’t a question.

 

Deacon hmm’d. “I dunno . . . I feel kinda weird about breaking into Will’s place.”

 

“No you don’t,” MacCready said, rolling his eyes.

 

“No, you’re right, I totally don’t,” Deacon grinned.

 

Five minutes later they stood in Home Plate, looking around. It was mostly bare since Will rarely stayed here. Of course, it was Deacon’s hawk-like eyes that found the blood. A couple of drops by the stairs led up to where the sparse bed was. There was a small pool by the bed, like whoever was bleeding had paused there. Then the drops continued up to the small trap door set into the ceiling. The door itself was smeared with more blood. MacCready felt himself shaking.  _ Please don’t be Will’s blood _ .

 

“We got a regular old crime scene here,” Nick commented, dipping one of his skeletal fingers in the blood. It came away clean. “Blood’s dry. It’s old.”

 

“Great,” MacCready snapped, “That’s helpful.”

 

Nick ignored him, continuing to walk around the house. MacCready tapped his foot impatiently.

 

“This is a pretty quiet crime scene,” Nick said, “Looks like he was hurt by the stairs, made it up them, stopped by the bed, maybe to grab a gun or other weapon, and made it out the trap door. Let’s take a look at the roof.”

 

The roof was far more telling than the interior. They all stood looking around the small piece of paper that was pinned to the table with a knife. 

 

“Is that -  _ blood _ ?” Danse demanded, looking in horror at the letter, and MacCready’s mind flashed to the house of horrors called Pickman’s Gallery, wondered if that’s where Will got the idea. 

 

“Yep,” Deacon said grimly.

 

Nick gingerly plucked the letter off the chair and they all gathered around him to read the letters written in the smudged red liquid.

 

_ Mutants. 87.  _

 

They stared at it in silence. Deacon was the first one to break it.

 

“Are we all wondering what the hell that means or is it just me?”

 

“Not just you,” Nick said, shaking his head. 

 

“Damn mutants,” Danse growled. 

 

“So, what do you guys make of this?” Deacon questioned, “Personally, I’m assuming it means that 87 mutants stormed in here and kidnapped Will.”

 

MacCready wanted to tell Deacon off for joking about this but something was nagging at him. He was so close to figuring it and  _ oh. _

 

“Vault 87,” he said.

 

They all turned to stare at him.

 

“Vault 87,” he repeated, “They took him to Vault 87.”

 

“Which one is that again?” Deacon asked, giving Mac an impressed look.

 

“It’s the one where super mutants were created. The scientists or whatever exposed people to the FEV virus. The mutants that live there are obsessed with preserving their species. It’s not unheard of to kidnap people and bring them back to mutate them.”

 

“How do you know this?” Danse asked.

 

“Because I grew up next to the vault.”

 

Deacon raised an eyebrow. “You mean this vault is next to Little Lamplight?”

 

MacCready nodded.

 

“Which means it’s . . .”

 

“Yeah,” he said, closing his eyes, “In the Capital Wasteland.” 

 

  * -



 

“Assuming Will was taken the day after he got here, they’ve got a pretty decent headstart,” Nick said, leaning back in his chair, “MacCready, how long did it take you to get from the Capital to the Commonwealth?”

 

MacCready considered the question. “I . . . I’m not totally sure. That was pretty much the worst point in my life. It’s all kinda hazy. Probably about two weeks.”

 

“How could that be the worst point in your life?” Danse scoffed, “You’re, what, twenty five?”

 

Deacon stiffened next to him and Nick swore quietly under his breath. 

 

MacCready felt rage, white-hot, pumping through him. “Twenty-three. And I came here after my wife was ripped to shreds in front of me by feral ghouls and my baby boy got so sick that I had to leave him to go find him a cure. So fuck you, Danse.”

 

Danse’s mouth dropped open and if we wasn’t so angry, MacCready might have found it comical. 

 

“MacCready, I . . . I apologize. I had no idea.”

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Mac muttered, got to his feet, “I need some air.”

 

“MacCready-” Danse started again but this time Deacon cut him off.

 

“I think you’ve said enough.” His voice was cold, body stiff.

 

MacCready didn’t protest when Deacon followed him outside, didn’t protest when he pulled Mac to him, pressed a kiss to his temple. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said simply and MacCready knew he meant it, heard the cold fury in his voice when he spoke to Danse.

 

“Thanks,” MacCready whispered back, pressed his face into Deacon’s shoulder, fighting hot tears. 

 

The pain and grief had dulled with time, but Danse’s words had ripped the wound open again. Memories that he had tried to hard to suppress rushed back in and he shuddered, remembering Lucy’s blonde hair matted with blood, her screams to  _ run _ , her cries as she was torn apart, Duncan sobbing- 

 

Deacon snapped him out of it, took MacCready’s face gently between his rough hands, brushed the tears that had escaped away with his thumb. 

 

“Hey,” he murmured, “Stay with me, babe.”

 

It was a term that Deacon rarely used and it worked, the memories fading as MacCready focused on the face he loved more than anything, save for his son; the smell of Deacon, like gunpowder and woodsmoke; the warmth of his hands. His breathing slowed and he hadn’t even realized how rapidly his breath had been coming.

 

“There we are,” Deacon said and MacCready heard the smile in his voice.

 

And even though they were standing right in front of Valentine’s Detective Agency, MacCready closed the short distance between them, pressed his body against Deacon’s, kissed him in a desperate sort of way. Deacon, for his part, didn’t seem to mind, wrapped his arms tightly around MacCready. Mac tangled one hand in the red hair Deacon was letting grow out, the other slid down to cup Deacon through his pants. Deacon chuckled into Mac’s mouth before he pulled away.

 

“Maybe not the best time, killer.”

 

MacCready groaned in frustration. “I  _ miss  _ you.”

 

Deacon considered him for a moment, ran a hand through his hair. Finally he smiled mischievously. “I bet I can get Home Plate open again.”

  
  


Later, when Deacon has him up against the wall at Home Plate, moving into him with long, slow thrusts, MacCready almost wishes he could just stay there forever. Listen to Deacon’s soft moans in his ear, his breath hot against MacCready’s neck, Deacon’s strong hands gripping him, holding him up, the loving words he whispers in his ear.

 

“ . . . fucking  _ adore _ you, Mac, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

 

“I love you,” MacCready gasped out, bit back a moan as Deacon hit  _ that _ spot inside him. 

 

Deacon stilled and MacCready realized that he’d never told Deacon that before, but it was true, it was so fucking true and he wouldn’t take it back.

 

“What?” Deacon breathed.

 

“I love you, Deacon. I am in love with you. I am so, so in love with you.”

 

Deacon’s grip around him tightened, and he thrust back into MacCready, made him cry out in pleasure and surprise. 

 

“God, MacCready,” Deacon gasped, “I love you so much.”

 

And he carried MacCready up the stairs to the bed and MacCready wants to be embarrassed that Deacon’s  _ carrying him _ but then Deacon is over him, pushing back into him and fucking him but they weren’t fucking, they were  _ making love _ and they were together in a way they hadn’t been before. Deacon slipped their fingers together, pressed sloppy kisses to Mac’s neck, mouth open and hot. Every one of Deacon’s thrusts had MacCready seeing stars and he gripped at the man’s back desperately, bucked his hips up in an attempt to drive Deacon in deeper, although it wasn’t possible. He wanted to melt into Deacon, spend the rest of his life in this shitty bed in Diamond City, being with Deacon in a way he didn’t know was possible. He wanted Deacon to know it.

 

“Y-you- ngh - make me happier than I’ve ever been before.”

 

Deacon’s movements falter for a second and he leaned down to kiss MacCready. It was almost tender, nothing like their usual heat. 

 

“Mac, you are  _ everything _ to me. I will spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you deserve.” He kissed MacCready again, this time open mouthed and needy. 

 

Deacon’s words had MacCready teetering on the edge, small pants and whines escaped his lips. He dimly registered that Deacon was murmuring something to him, voice quiet and raw.

 

“Love you, love you, love you.”

 

MacCready came with a groan, Deacon following shortly after and they lay together, panting. 

 

“That was . . .” Deacon ran a hand down his face, “Something.”

 

MacCready chuckled breathlessly. “That was amazing.”

 

Deacon nodded, barely visible in the dark room. “We should probably find the other two. Being alone with Nick too long might make Danse cry.”

 

MacCready assented, wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of the night in bed with Deacon, but since he dragged both him and Danse here, it was only fair he rounded everyone up. They dressed quickly, made their way back to Nick’s office. 

 

Nick looked up, smirked when he saw them. MacCready flushed but Deacon just smiled serenely.  

 

“Where’s Dansey Pants?”

 

“I told you not to call me that,” said a voice from the corner, and they saw that Danse had managed to move even further into the shadows

 

“C’mon,” MacCready said quickly before Deacon could retort, “We have a long trip ahead of us. We should get as much sleep as possible.”

 

The other two nodded in agreement and the three of them thanked Nick, promised to stop by before they left the next day, and headed for the Dugout. Vadim greeted them cheerfully, offered them two rooms with a wink. They accepted their keys, MacCready and Deacon headed for one room and Danse for another. 

 

“Goodnight, Dansey pants, sleep tight!” Deacon called after his retreating form.

 

Danse slammed the door so hard the frame shook. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was pretty much just an excuse to write some fluff between Mac and Deacon since there wasn't a whole lot of that in the previous fic. Also an excuse to bring Danse down a notch, because I love him but, I mean, c'mon, Danse.


	3. Three

Danse was already leaning against a wall, glowering at the passerby’s when Deacon and MacCready stumbled out of the Dugout. MacCready was blurry-eyed and disheveled but Deacon looked perfectly put together. His sunglasses were already on even though the sun was barely peeking over the horizon and Danse wondered if he slept with them on.

“About time,” he grumbled, giving them a distasteful once-over.

MacCready’s neck had numerous dark splotches on it that his scarf failed miserably to hide, and Danse shifted uncomfortably thinking of Deacon putting them there with his mouth.

Deacon yawned. “Sorry, Danse.”

Danse didn’t really believe Deacon was sorry – he actually didn’t believe anything the Railroad member said – but he didn’t bother arguing.

“Since this trip will be significantly longer than expected, we should stock up accordingly.”

The other two men nodded, MacCready sighing. “Will better give me those caps back when we rescue his sorry behind; this is gonna be an expensive trip.”

The three split up, MacCready going to barter for ammo, Deacon for food, and Danse for medical supplies. Danse watched with a slight pang of jealousy as Deacon and MacCready haggled their vendors down to absurdly low prices; Danse wasn’t nearly as good with his words as the other two - he tended to rely more on intimidation. And since he had spent most of his life with the Brotherhood, he had never really had to haggle or barter, and he wasn’t always sure when he was being taken advantage of. He also didn’t have Deacon’s silver tongue or MacCready’s reputation.

They stopped to bid Nick farewell, and even Danse couldn’t miss the concern etched across the synth’s face.

“Don’t worry, Nicky,” Deacon said brightly, “We got two Capital Wasteland natives here.”

Danse started. Sometimes he forgot that’s where he came from. Or at least where he thought he came from. Sometimes he still wasn’t sure which memories were his own. On really bad days, he questioned whether he ever really knew Cutler, but the memory of the man’s face, the love he felt for him – if he was sure of anything, it was that Cutler had existed and he had loved him more than anything.

“Right,” Nick said slowly, “Well, please take care of yourselves. I’ve heard the super mutants in the Capital are a whole lot stronger than the one’s around her. Stupider, but meaner.”

Danse saw MacCready nod. “He’s right,” he younger man asserted, “Growing up next to that Vault . . . those were some _nasty_ son of a bit – gun’s.”

Danse vaguely wondered why MacCready always stopped himself from swearing. He didn’t mind; cursing always seemed too low-brow to him, but the merc was fine with murdering and stealing and extorting people, but he drew the line at swearing? Odd.

They said goodbye to Nick and left Diamond City, giving its sparkling lights one last look before they gate slammed down and the only thing to see was mountains of rubble.

“So,” Deacon said after a short pause, “Which way, fellas?”

\-          -

 

By the end of the first day, Danse was _exhausted_. Not physically – he had marched much longer than this before – but mentally. He was used to silence while he walked, and if there was talking it was strictly about things related to the Brotherhood, occasionally different power armor mods. Deacon and MacCready, though, they chatted almost incessantly about things that were mind numbing to Danse, like some drama that had transpired between the Dugout’s bartender and someone named Travis, to other subjects that had Danse blushing to the tips of his toes, like something absolutely scandalizing MacCready said involving a mutfruit.

When they weren’t talking, Deacon was humming the most annoying tunes Danse had ever heard or MacCready was grumbling to himself about the heat, the dust, the poor visibility, whatever.

Still, Danse felt another small rush of jealousy as he watched the two men. They were so comfortable and relaxed around one another. Danse knew they were lovers but they also appeared to be best friends. They reminded him of how he and Cutler had been once. Even though he didn’t particularly care for either of them, they were interesting to watch. Danse wasn’t familiar with relationships outside of the ones between Brotherhood soldiers which were almost always fraternal.

More than once he caught MacCready watching Deacon with an expression that made Danse blush and look away, feeling like he was intruding on something private. Occasionally he would see Deacon press a hand to the small of MacCready’s back or stop to whisper something in MacCready’s ear that made him turn faintly pink. Danse found himself wondering with a clinical sort of curiosity what it would be like to be with someone that way. There had been a couple men and women who had propositioned him during his time with the Brotherhood, and he was aware in a sort of detached way that people tended to find him attractive, but relationships were not something that ever interested him and sex was a slightly terrifying prospect to him. Sometimes he wondered if his lack of interest in carnal pleasures was due to him being a synth, but then he would remember how deeply he had loved Cutler, so intensely that sometimes Danse wasn’t sure what kind of love it was.

Sometimes, in the days to come, when he couldn’t sleep, he would watch MacCready and Deacon curled together, usually Deacon with an arm wrapped around MacCready, the other hand inches away from his gun, but sometimes Deacon wrapped himself around MacCready, face buried in the younger man’s neck, pressed chest to chest. It was the most intimate Danse ever saw them, and sometimes, when they had managed not to annoy him much that day, the jealousy was replaced with something akin to endearment. They were . . . sweet together. Once, Danse even caught himself wondering if he would ever find something like that one day.

\-          -

  


Their trip was uneventful, for the most part, until about a week in. They were in some place that Deacon told them had been called New York before the War, but Danse wasn’t sure he believed him. They were walking through yet another large expanse of _nothing_ , when movement down the road caught their eye. They stilled, Deacon and MacCready immediately going for their guns, Danse lifting his, as well.

“What is it, Mac?” Deacon asked softly as MacCready peered down his sniper rifle.

“Children of Atom, I think.”

Danse relaxed, and so did Deacon, but MacCready stayed tense.

“Well those fanatics don’t even pose a threat –“ Danse started but MacCready cut him off.

“Quiet,” he hissed, still staring down the scope.

The other two men stilled again, trying to make out what MacCready was looking at.

“Holy crap,” MacCready breathed, dropping his rifle down, eyes wide.

“What?” Deacon and Danse demanded at the same time.

“They’ve got a whole arsenal of mini nukes.”

Deacon and Danse exchanged a look.

“That’s not good,” Deacon finally said sounding thoughtful, “The Children of Atom aren’t usually hostile back where we are in the Commonwealth but here? We might want to make like a tree and _leave_.”

Danse wasn’t one to back down, but even he had to admit that the idea of those religious zealots with a bunch of nukes was intimidating. They were scanning the area for somewhere to wait until the Children passed, when the world blew up.

 


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this chapter is mostly filler and a bit of a chance to explore Deacon and Mac's relationship. It'll get better soon, promise!

MacCready blinked up at the sky, feeling his eyes sting and realized something sticky was dripping into them. He rubbed at his eyes and his hand came back red.

“S-shoot,” he mumbled, although he couldn’t even hear himself over the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

He shifted, feeling pain, white-hot, shoot up his side. He gritted his teeth and rolled into a sitting position, grabbing his head when a wave of dizziness washed over him. Mac glanced down to see his duster was soaked with blood on the side where the pain was. He fingered the injury, feeling relief when his fingers didn’t find any guts or even an open wound. Just a deep scratch, probably from shrapnel.

Shrapnel.

He jumped to his feet, his leg screaming in protest, and oh, guess that’s hurt too, before casting around for some idea of what was going on. There was a decent sized hole in the ground that hadn’t been there before. It was smoking faintly. On the other side of the crater, MacCready saw a hulking metal frame, and it took him a second to realize it was Danse. He was crouched on one knee, aiming down his scope and picking off distant figures. MacCready’s head was pounding, blood blurring his vision, and he thought there was a distinct possibility his leg was broken, but the pure terror that coursed through his veins made him forget all that.

Deacon. Where the hell is Deacon?

“Deacon!” he screamed, “Deacon, where are you?”

He stumbled over to Danse. “Where’s Deacon?”

Danse didn’t even turn to him. “I don’t know. I’m a little busy at the moment.”

MacCready wavered. He knew he should help Danse but all he could focus on was finding Deacon.

“I’ll be right back!” he shouted and Danse only grunted in response as he took down another Child.

MacCready rubbed the blood out of his eyes again, looking frantically around for the now familiar red hair. Finally, a white shirt, stained with blood, caught his eye on the far side of the smoking crater. He sprinted over, leg burning, and dropped to the ground next to Deacon.

“Deeks!” he yelled, flipping the man over.

Deacon’s sunglasses were spider webbed with cracks, and when MacCready yanked them off, the blue eyes were closed. Blood was trickling down across Deacon’s face from a cut to his temple and a dark stain spread out from Deacon’s side, turning his white shirt crimson.

“Oh, god,” MacCready groaned, fingers searching for a pulse. He almost cried in relief when he found one beating faintly against his fingers.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he muttered, hoisting Deacon over his shoulder with difficulty, “Christ, Deacon, time to lay off the Fancy Lad’s.”

He staggered back over to Danse, setting Deacon behind the larger man and crouching down next to Danse so both their bodies were shielding Deacon. He fumbled for his rifle, gripping it with shaking fingers as he tried to push away the image of Deacon lying bloody and battered behind him and focus on helping Danse trade fire with the Children.

They were significantly outnumbered by the group but MacCready and Danse made short work of them, both their skills easily enough to handle the cult, who thankfully seemed unwilling to waste another nuke on them.

When the last Child fell, MacCready dropped his gun, rushing back to Deacon’s side, Danse following.

“Find the stimpacks,” he commanded Danse who obeyed at once.

MacCready pulled out a rag from his pocket, trying to find the cleanest part to wipe away the blood that was covering Deacon’s face. Danse returned with a stimpack and MacCready lifted Deacon’s shirt, groaning at the piece of steel lodged in the man’s side.

“Okay,” MacCready said to steady himself, “I just gotta pull it out.”

Danse looked between him and Deacon with concern. “Are you sure that’s wise? There’s no telling how deep it’s in.”

MacCready shook his head. “We don’t have a choice. I don’t even know where we are, much less where the nearest doctor is. We can’t leave it in him.”

Danse nodded uncertaintly but helped MacCready work Deacon’s shirt off the rest of the way.

“I’m so sorry, Deeks,” MacCready whispered, wrapping his fingers around the piece of steel before giving it a sharp tug.

Deacon screamed.

The sound tore straight through MacCready, making his blood run cold, and he almost let go of the metal.

“Pull it the rest of the way out!” he heard Danse yell and MacCready gritted his teeth, glancing up to see Danse trying to hold Deacon down by the shoulders. Deacon’s eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth twisted in pain.

Deacon screamed again and it was the worst sound MacCready had ever heard. His mind flashed to Lucy, the way she had screamed in her last moments. He realized that tears were streaming down his face while he sobbed apologizes.

“MacCready, you need to finish pulling it out!”

Danse’s words registered with him as if from a great distance. He looked down, saw his hands covered with Deacon’s blood, still wrapped around the metal bar protruding from Deacon’s stomach. He shuddered, looked away, and yanked, bile rising in his throat.

MacCready felt the steel slide out with a sickening sound and he almost retched. Danse pushed his shaking hands away, injected Deacon with a stimpack and the two men watched the skin knit itself back together. Deacon appeared to be barely conscious and MacCready felt guilty being relieved over that, not sure he could stand hearing him scream anymore.

There was a moment where nobody spoke, the two men just looked around at the smoldering hole in the ground, the pile of dead Children of Atom down the road, the wounded man between them.

“Shit,” MacCready said and Danse looked at him in surprise.

“We should find some sort of shelter,” Danse suggested.

They located some boulders that were clustered under a jagged cliff, protruding far enough to offer a decent amount of cover. They carried Deacon over, MacCready holding him by the shoulders and Danse, his feet. They set him gently down and MacCready stripped off his duster, balling it up and placing it under Deacon’s head, careful to put the side stained with blood facedown.

Then he and Danse collected their gear that was strewn everywhere, as well as the rest of the nukes from the Children of Atom, working quickly and silently before hurrying back to Deacon. Danse busied himself pulling out rations and purified water for them, while MacCready smoothed Deacon’s hair down, bundled him up in a blanket. The other two men ate in silence, and MacCready assessed his own damage. His side felt worse than it was and his leg didn’t seem to be broken, just a twisted ankle. He injected himself with a quarter of a stimpack, feeling sweet relief when the pain faded away.

“You okay?” he asked Danse, looking over at the man.

Danse nodded. “Power armor offers far more protection than road leathers or coats.”

MacCready had to smile at that. “You’re not wrong about that, Danse.”

“What do we do now?”

MacCready glanced down at Deacon whose brow was furrowed as if he was having a nightmare.

“We stay here tonight. Hopefully Deacon will be okay to travel in the morning.”

Danse nodded. “What about the nukes? We can’t bring them with us but leaving them here is foolish. Anyone could come along and take them.”

MacCready had to agree, although he was tempted to tell Danse to just leave them, annoyed that it was now their problem.

“We’ll hide them somewhere,” he said finally, “Maybe come back for them. If not, maybe nobody else will find them. We can do it in the morning though.”

“Fine. I can take first watch if you want to try and get some sleep.”

The sun was barely below the horizon and MacCready’s blood was still thrumming loudly in his ears. He shook his head.

“Can’t sleep just yet. You go ahead.”

Danse shook his head too. “I can’t sleep right now either.”

They lapsed into almost companionable silence, Danse scanning the rapidly darkening horizon and MacCready absently stroking Deacon’s hair.

 

It was a long while later, the sky lit only by stars, and the night silent save for Danse’s soft snoring, MacCready drifting in and out of sleep, that a cool hand wrapped around Mac’s wrist. He started, scrambling for his gun, before realizing it was Deacon.

“Deeks,” he whispered, relief rushing through him.

“Am I in heaven?” Deacon questioned, voice scratchy.

“What?” MacCready asked, wondering if Deacon had a concussion.

“Cause babe, you’re an angel.”

MacCready groaned but unable to keep a smile off his face. “That was weak.”

Deacon coughed out a laugh. “Hey, cut me a break. I just got blown six ways to Sunday by some nutso cult.”

“How are you feeling?” MacCready asked, his smile fading as he tried to make Deacon’s features out in the moonlight.

“Sore, but fine otherwise. Better living through chemistry and all that.”

MacCready let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “You scared the heck outta me.”

“Sorry,” Deacon said, sounding anything but, “I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”

“You better not,” MacCready murmured, moving Deacon’s head so it was lying in his lap.

He bent down to press a chaste kiss to Deacon’s lips, but to his surprise, Deacon deepened the kiss, licking at his lips and sliding his tongue into Mac’s mouth. MacCready kissed him back hungrily, feeling a tightening in his lower stomach and this so wasn’t the time. Deacon chuckled throatily and MacCready realized he could definitely feel how hard he was getting since his head was resting on Mac’s crotch.

“As much as I’d love to fuck you right now, we might scar Danse for life.”

MacCready hummed in agreement, but he was more focused on the words that had just come out of Deacon’s mouth. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to hearing Deacon talk like that. Deacon’s, frankly absurdly sexy, voice pitched low, spilling filthy words into Mac’s ear was one of his favorite parts of this new relationship.

MacCready shifted, stretched out next to Deacon, gently wrapped an arm around him, nuzzled at his neck.

“So glad you’re okay.”

This time Deacon groaned. “Don’t get all sappy on me, MacCready.”

Mac just smiled into Deacon’s neck, rubbing his jaw against Deacon’s stubble, breathing him in.

“I love you.”

Deacon’s voice was quiet, hesitant, the words almost a question and MacCready could tell how rarely they had been used.

“I love you, Deeks.”

And, as he stroked a finger across Deacon’s stomach, MacCready thought that even though they were sleeping on the cold, hard ground in an irritated hellhole, after being nuked by a bunch of crazy cultists, there was no place else he would rather be. He lay awake for a long while, feeling Deacon’s breathing slow against his neck, watched the stars wink down at him, a million miles away.


	5. Five

Deacon winced slightly, hand involuntarily going to his side, and he glanced over at Mac to make sure he hadn’t seen. MacCready was watching the mountains though, misty blue and hazy in the distance. Deacon let his hand drop, not noticing that MacCready wasn’t watching him but Danse was. 

 

His wound had healed nicely but he was still left with some massive bruising. He had dealt with worse - a lot worse - but the seemingly endless walking was starting to take its toll. The last thing he wanted to do was to let Mac know that, though. Deacon thought longingly of the Med-X that was in Danse’s bag, wished he wasn’t such a fuck up so he could have some. But he knew the second he stuck that needle in his arm, all he would care about would be chasing that high and he might still be a fuck up but he wouldn’t do that. Not to Mac. 

 

_ Once an addict, always an addict _ , he thought sourly. His gaze drifted back MacCready and he felt his mood lift a little.  _ Doesn't mean I can't replace one addiction with another.  _

 

He caught up to MacCready, grinned at him. 

 

“Are you a dose of Psycho? 'Cause I'm  _ crazy _ about you.”

 

MacCready rolled his eyes but chuckled and was the best sound in the world. He wanted to spend the rest of his days chasing that laugh. 

 

  * \- 



 

“It’s too  _ hot _ .”

 

Deacon rolled his eyes behind MacCready's back. He loved the kid, but  _ damn _ he liked to complain. Next to him, Danse frowned. 

 

“It's just as hot as the Commonwealth.”

 

“Feels hotter,” MacCready grumbled, kicked at the dusty ground. 

 

Deacon bit back a laugh. Danse looks at him as if to say,  _ Is he always like this?  _ Deacon shrugged at him.  _ Yeah. And I love it.  _

 

“Why don't you take off your coat?” Deacon suggested in a syrupy sweet voice that he knew set Mac's teeth on edge. 

 

MacCready muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but shrugged off his duster and stuffed it in his bag before he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Deacon licked his lips, admired the well-muscled forearms. He caught Danse looking too and smirked. He wondered what MacCready would say if he knew Danse was checking him out. Deacon made a mental note to tell him later. 

 

They stopped by a riverbed, long since dried up, for lunch. All three were sweating and covered in the dirt that they'd kicked up from the road. MacCready had abandoned his scarf and Deacon eyed the fading marks on his next. He thought of the matching bruises on his hips, grinned at the memory of Mac’s sharp little fingers digging into his soft skin. Deacon thought it was telling that they both enjoyed a little bit of pain - and they both enjoyed inflicting it. 

 

He was pulled out of his musings by a hissing. A very sweaty Danse climbed out of his power armor. Deacon and MacCready stared at him, both forgetting about the skin tight orange jumpsuit he tended to wear. Deacon’s mind flashed to ancient statues carved in stone, perfect bodies of marble. Danse looked like one of them, and Deacon had to admit that the Institute did a damn good job with creating him. MacCready caught Deacon staring and scowled at him. He smirked back, waggled his eyebrows suggestively. MacCready’s scowl deepened. Danse, of course, noticed nothing. In fact, he unzipped the jump suit to his waist, knotted the arms, revealing the most impressive chest Deacon had ever seen. He thought of the David and the Vitruvian Man; human - well, almost human - perfection. Still, he preferred Mac’s body, the long, lean lines, flat muscles, sharp hip bones. 

 

MacCready huffed angrily and Deacon realized that he was still staring at Danse’s bare chest. He hastily looked away, grabbed MacCready's ass as he walked by. MacCready yelped in surprise and glared harder at Deacon. Deacon brushed the pad of his thumb across the back of Mac's neck when Danse looked away.  _ Only you. _ MacCready sighed in exasperation but his lips lifted at the corner.  _ Yeah, yeah _ . Deacon briefly curled himself against MacCready, pressed his back against Mac’s chest, let the other man drop his hands to Deacon's hips.  _ Only yours _ . MacCready gave him a sharp nip under his earlobe, but looked slightly appeased.  _ I know. _ Deacon liked their silent language, the way they could communicate without words. 

 

Their relationship was markedly different from how his and Barbara's had been. He could hardly keep his trap shut around her, always running his mouth, talking a mile a minute. Maybe it was because he's older and jaded, or whatever Glory called him once, but he enjoyed the way he and MacCready communicate with words and touches and looks alone. It made him feel like they were a part of each other. There were other differences he appreciated, a multitude of them in fact. 

 

He liked how sturdy MacCready was. He was small but there wasn’t any softness about him, nothing for Deacon to accidentally hurt. He liked his rough hands, calloused from years of sharpshooting; the smell of him, cigarettes and leather; the scratch of his beard. He liked how cynical MacCready was, how he was always itching for a fight. So different from Barb; she was always gentle and endlessly patient. Mac was all jagged edges and restlessness. He liked watching MacCready move, shoulders thrown back, the smallest sway to his hips, purposeful and self-assured in his own skin. And watching MacCready sink to his knees and wrap his fingers around his rifle did all _ sorts  _ of things to Deacon. 

 

The pain in his side was getting steadily worse, and Deacon finally had to pause, doubled over as he tried to catch his breath through the ache in his side. MacCready was at his side in a second, and even Danse hurried back over, hovering anxiously next to him.

 

“What’s wrong, Deacon?” MacCready demanded.

 

He thought briefly about lying but hadn’t he promised MacCready something about not doing that anymore?

 

“Bastards really did a number on me, I guess,” He tried to smile, “Side doesn’t feel so hot.”

 

“Let me see,” Mac commanded and Deacon had to give a small laugh at the man trying to glare at him intimidatingly, had a sudden mental image of a much younger MacCready ordering all the other little cave children around with the same scowl.

 

MacCready ignored his laughter, tugging impatiently at Deacon’s shirt and he let the younger man lift it over his head. All three of them looked down at Deacon’s torso where a mess of angry purple bruises covered the pale skin. Mac whistled. 

 

“Jesus, Deeks. You looked like a bruised mutfruit.”

 

Deacon grimaced. “Thanks, Mac.”

 

“You should use a bit of a stimpack,” Danse piped up, frowning, “That’s some impressive bruising. You’ll want to make sure there’s no internal bleeding.”

 

Deacon wanted to protest; they had so much further to go and a very limited supply of stimpacks, but he thought about walking until sundown with his side feeling the way it did, and relented. He accepted a stimpack from Danse, carefully injected a quarter of it into his side. He relaxed as the pain dulled, the bruising fading to a nasty yellow. He tugged his shirt on, shouldered his pack again and gave an overly cheery smile to the other two.

 

“Shall we?” he questioned, gestured to the open road.

 

“You are sure you are okay to continue?” Danse asked and Deacon was almost touched by his concern.

 

“One hundred and ten percent, Danse. Let’s make tracks while we still have the light.”

 

They set off again and Deacon tried to ignore MacCready’s worried glances over at him. It reminded him of Will, and he wondered where their friend was now. Wondered if he was alive. He wasn’t too optimistic. Then again, he never was.

 

  * \- 



 

Deacon couldn’t sleep. It was nothing new, but it never got any less annoying. He lay next to MacCready for a while, soaking in his warmth, before gently extricating himself and searching for his cigarettes. He lit one, wandering over to where Danse sat with his back to them.

 

“Get some rest,” he said, taking a seat next to him, “I’ll take over.”

 

“Can’t,” Danse said shortly, not looking over at him.

 

Deacon quirked an eyebrow. “Can’t or won’t? I know you don’t trust me for some reason, but - “

 

“ _ Can’t _ ,” Danse repeated and Deacon shut his mouth at the tone of the other man’s voice. 

 

“Okay,” he said mildly, “Mind if I sit with you then?”

 

Danse shrugged. “You can do whatever you want.”

 

Deacon raised his eyebrow higher.  _ That was rather passive-aggressive _ , he thought. Very unlike Danse.

 

“You okay, pal?”

 

Danse glanced over at that, narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

 

“Seems like something’s on your mind.”

 

“No,” Danse said, studying Deacon, “Why are you asking me? Why do you care?”

 

Deacon was taken aback. Sure, he didn’t  _ love _ the guy but he didn’t want him to suffer silently in his own mind; he knew what a mess that was. 

 

“Because I do,” he said simply, deciding to stick close to the truth, “Because you’re a friend of Will’s which makes you a friend of mine.”

 

Danse scoffed at him. “Sure. You don’t have to pretend that you don’t hate me.”

 

Deacon stared at him. “ _ What _ are you talking about?”

 

Danse glanced away and Deacon could make out a faint flush rising on his cheeks in the dark. 

 

“You’ve made no secret of your disdain for the Brotherhood, and by extension, me.”

 

Deacon sighed, running his hand through his hair, an unfortunate habit that he really needed to kick.

 

“I do not hate you, Danse. I . . . strongly disagree with the Brotherhood’s ethos but you’re all good in my book.”

 

“Why?” Danse asked bitterly, “Because I’m not a member anymore? If Maxon hadn’t ordered Will to execute me, I’d still be a Paladin.”

 

Deacon shook his head. “I’m not so sure that’s true.”

 

Danse’s face darkened even more. “What the hell do you know? Do you have any idea what it’s like to -”

 

He cut off abruptly, flushing even darker. Deacon considered his words carefully.

 

“To find out your entire life has been a lie? Can’t say that I do know what that’s like, can’t even imagine. But there are other people who do. Nick, for example.”

 

Danse shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I don’t deserve to have Nick console me or whatever you had in mind.”

 

Deacon was way in over his head. Will should be having this conversation with Danse, not him. He didn’t know how to comfort people, and he was the last person qualified to be giving advice. 

 

“Look, Danse, I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through but I recognize self-loathing when I hear it, and let me tell you, that shit will eat you alive if you let it.”

 

Danse looked over at him in surprise. Deacon nodded.

 

“Oh, I know all about hating yourself, Danse. Especially when it comes to stuff from your past. And, for once, I won’t lie: it’s not easy to stop, and sometimes I’m not even sure it’s possible. But, man, you’ve got to try. Even if it’s just to make up for whatever crap you did before.”

 

He realized he was rambling, shut his mouth, took a deep breath. Danse was still looking at him with an odd expression. Suddenly, Danse cleared his throat, looked uncomfortable.

 

“Does . . . does  _ he _ know about whatever you did that you dislike yourself for?” Danse asked awkwardly, gave a jerk of his head at MacCready’s sleeping form.

 

Deacon was caught off by guard by the question. “Yes,” he said honestly.

 

“And he doesn’t . . . hate you for it?”

 

Deacon huffed out a laugh. “God knows he should but he doesn’t. Mac’s got things in his own past that keep him up at night, metaphorically speaking. Everyone does, probably. But yeah, he knows, he gets the whole self-hatred feeling too. It’s a club, you can join when we get back to the Commonwealth; there’s like an initiation and everything.”

 

Danse cracked a small smile and  _ wow, he is handsome _ .

 

“And does he . . . help?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Danse looked irritated with his inability to express himself. “Does him loving you, does it change the way you feel about yourself?”

 

Deacon considered the question, vaguely shocked by it. 

 

“Jeez, Danse, that’s one hell of a question. Um, not really. I don’t know,” he ran his hand through his hair again, lit another smoke, “It helps to have someone living with similar demons. But mostly he makes me want to be the person he deserves to have.”

 

Danse nodded slowly. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

 

Deacon shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, sure, no problem. And seriously, Danse? Talk to Nick. He’s a really cool guy, he won’t hold your past bullshit against you.”

 

Danse didn’t answer but Deacon thought he saw him nod minutely as he got to his feet. 

 

“Wake me up when you want me to take over.”

 

“Okay,” Danse said softly, stared off into the blackness. 

 

Deacon watched him for another moment, wished he could think of something more to say. In the end, though, he curled back up next to Mac, mouthed a kiss to his neck.  _ So lucky _ , he thinks,  _ I am so goddamn lucky. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is ending up being a shit ton of character interaction crap but I promise next chapter will have an actual, like, plot.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been awhile! I promise I haven't forgotten!

They reach Pennsylvania by the beginning of their second week. A centuries old sign welcomes them to the Keystone State, whatever that means. MacCready aims a halfhearted kick at the rusted metal.

 

“We’re not even out of the damn Commonwealth,” he grouses miserably.

 

“We almost are,” Danse says, “We should be able to make it to DC by the end of the week if we make minimal stops.”

 

MacCready sighs, tries to focus on Will’s face in his mind’s eye as a reminder of what this is all for. Still, despite his annoyance, a nervous excitement is twisting in his stomach. He's been trying not to even  _ consider _ it but they'll be so close to Duncan by the time they make it to Vault 87. And it's stupid - absurdly so - but he can't help but wonder, what if he stopped by Red’s and took Duncan home with them? It’s an idea he’s been toying with since it was decided they’d go after Will, and once it settled into his brain, he can’t get it out of his head. 

 

Since things have settled down a little bit, Will busy building some teleportation machine or something, Mac has been thinking about going back for Duncan more and more. He has enough caps now, more than enough, but he wanted to wait until this business was over with the Institute - however it ended. Now though, Duncan is all he can think about. There isn’t much standing in the way of bringing him back with them; in fact, it would be better with all four of them, a hell of a lot safer. But everytime he thinks of voicing his desire to bring Duncan home with them, something twists painfully in his gut, and it’s not until he polishes off half a bottle of whiskey with Deacon and Danse one night that he can admit to himself why. 

 

_ What _ , he thinks, staring into their small campfire,  _ if he doesn’t remember me _ ? 

 

  * \- 



 

Once he thinks it, there’s no going back. It hammers into his mind as he walks, it’s all he can think about before he falls asleep and the first thing that pops into his mind when he wakes. It’s one of the worst things he can imagine, his own son not remembering him. MacCready has always had a tendency towards anxiety but this, this is a whole different game. He can’t eat, his stomach perpetually tied in knots. It’s hard for him to sleep and bags gather under his eyes, dark like bruises. He catches Deacon watching him often, brow furrowed in concern, lips tight around the edges. Even Danse looks slightly concerned, going as far as to ask if he’s feeling well.

 

“Fine,” MacCready muttered, shifting his pack higher and speeding up to walk ahead of the other two, not in the mood to talk. 

 

He didn’t miss the look they exchanged behind his back. 

 

  * \- 



 

Deacon finally confronts him a couple days later. MacCready is watching Danse collecting splintered wood for a fire, mind a million miles away, when Deacon comes up behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist, kissing his neck. MacCready tries to relax under the touch but he’s not in the mood. He’s busy wondering if Duncan calls Red “daddy”. 

 

“Can we talk for a sec?” Deacon questions, easy smile, slightly slumped shoulders. MacCready knows him well enough to know that he’s trying to appear non-threatening to make Mac open up.

 

“Sure,” he replies warily, taking a seat next to Deacon on a boulder.

 

Deacon reaches for him, seems to think better of it and drops his hands to his lap. MacCready feels a surge of guilt that Deacon thinks he would push him away. He takes the other man’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb across Deacon’s knuckles. 

 

“What’s going on?” Deacon asks and Mac can feel his gaze through the sunglasses.

 

“What do you mean?” MacCready asks, widening his eyes slightly, hoping it might get him out of having to Talk About His Feelings. 

 

He loves Deacon more than anything but Mac’s never been one for heart-to-hearts and he’s half afraid that voicing his fears will make them more real somehow. 

 

Deacon grimaces. “Don’t give me those big blues like that. It’s insulting. I know something’s wrong, you’ve been weird for days.”

 

“You’re one to talk about being weird,” MacCready grumbles, stalling for time.

 

Deacon smirks. “You’re avoiding the question. C’mon, Mac. No lies, remember?”

 

MacCready scowls at his words being thrown back at him. “I’m not the compulsive liar.”

 

“Coulda fooled me.”

 

MacCready sighs, tries to focus on the warmth of Deacon’s hand in his, tries to remember that this is  _ Deacon _ , that he can tell him anything.

 

“Big Town is right near Vault 87,” he mumbles, looking away. 

 

He can feel Deacon’s confusion but the man stays silent waiting for MacCready to continue. 

“That’s where Duncan is.”

 

He hears Deacon suck in a shocked breath. “Mac, that’s - that’s great. We can bring Duncan home with us.”

 

MacCready stares across the waste, fighting panic and hot tears. “What if he doesn’t remember me?”

 

Deacon stops his fidgeting, goes very still. Mac chances a look over and Deacon’s worrying at his lower lip. 

 

“He was so young when I  _ left _ ,” his voice cracks on the last word and he has to stop for a moment, steady himself.

 

“I’m sure he remembers you,” Deacon says softly, “You’re his father.”

 

MacCready barks out a bitter laugh. “I don’t remember my father. Or my mother.”

 

“Jesus, Mac-” Deacon whispers but MacCready cuts him off. 

 

“No, don’t, it’s fine. I got over it a long while ago. But I did hate them for a long time. I couldn’t understand how they could just  _ abandon _ me. Even if Duncan does remember me, what if he feels the same way? I wouldn’t blame him.”

 

“But you always planned on going back for him. He’ll understand, Mac.”

 

MacCready doesn’t answer, doesn’t return the reassuring squeeze Deacon gives his hand. He wants to push the other man away, yell at him, tell him he has no  _ idea _ what it’s like to leave your son behind and wonder if he’ll even remember you. But he imagines the way Deacon’s face will slip back into its neutral mask, the sardonic grin he’ll give MacCready, the chill in his voice that only serves to disguise his hurt. He can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he gets to his feet, hand slipping out of Deacon’s. 

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says, trying to make his voice light, “We should go help Danse.”

 

Deacon nods, following him, but MacCready feels his eyes on him the rest of the night.

 

  * \- 



 

MacCready is supposed to be on watch, but he's really splitting his time between watching Deacon sleep and biting his nail down to the quick. He’s doing the former - watching the soft rise and fall of Deacon’s chest, the way his face is slack and open in sleep - when distant shouting has him dropping to his knees and looking around for the source of the noise. 

 

“Hey,” he hisses to the other two, trying to wake them without making too much noise himself, “wake up.”

 

They don’t stir. He groans quietly, steadying his rifle and peering through it, suddenly wishing he had accepted Will’s offer to mod it with a night-scope. For a long beat he can’t make anything out in the darkness, then suddenly his gaze lands on a flicker of light that dances and twists in the distance. Flames. He squints harder, is able to make out a dozen or so inky figures holding torches. They’re shattering the night’s silence with raucous laughing and shouting. MacCready knows there’s only one logical possibility. 

 

“Fu-freaking raiders,” he mutters, letting his rifle drop, moving silently towards Deacon.

 

He places a hand over Deacon’s mouth, feeling slightly guilty, knowing Deacon will wake in a panic. Sure enough, he jerks awake, one hand wrapping vice-like around MacCready’s wrist, the other going for his knife. 

 

“It’s me,” Mac reassures him, “It’s MacCready.”

 

Deacon relaxes. “Mac. What’s wrong, babe?”

 

His voice is thick with sleep and the sweet name on his lips distracts MacCready for a moment. He so tired, all he wants to do is crawl into Deacon’s sleeping bag with him, press kisses to the side of his mouth, nuzzle at his neck. But he can still hear the raiders and  _ fuck, they sound closer. _

 

“Raiders,” he murmurs, already moving for Danse.

 

Deacon’s up in a second, MacCready sees the silver flash of his gun being drawn. 

 

“Danse, get up.”

 

Danse grumbles something, openly a bleary eye to glare at MacCready. 

 

“What?”

 

“Raiders.”

 

Danse is also up in the blink of an eye, heading for his power armor before MacCready can react. 

 

“Wait,” he whisper-shouts, “Your power armor is too loud. They’ll hear us the second you take a step.”

 

Danse hesitates and MacCready knows he the man feels more at home in the suit. Danse casts a final look at the metal frame, before nodding, drawing his own gun. 

 

“We need to look for cover,” Deacon says, eyes following the torch light that’s moving steadily closer. 

 

All three men cast desperately around for somewhere to hide, but the wasteland around them is flat and barren. 

 

“What do we do?” Danse demands.

 

“We try and put as much distance between us and them as possible. We’ll come back for our stuff in the morning,” MacCready says, taking control of the situation. 

 

“Leave our stuff?” Danse repeats, looking in horror at his precious power armor.

 

MacCready tries with some difficulty not to roll his eyes. “I know raiders must’ve run at the sight of all you Brotherhood tightasses, but let me tell you, Danse, you do not want to meet a bunch of raiders hopped up on homemade chems in the middle of the night. I promise you.”

 

“Yeah,” Deacon agrees, teeth gleaming in the dark, “Pretty boy like you, they’ll have a field day.”

 

MacCready can see Danse flush even in the inky blackness. 

 

“C’mon,” MacCready sighs before Danse can answer, “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

 

He can feel Deacon at his back as they run as stealthily as possible across the dry and cracked ground, heading west of the group of raiders. They don’t make it more than a couple yards, though, before a rustling stops them.

 

“What was that?” Danse inquires, peering around.

 

“Don’t know,” Deacon mutters. 

 

MacCready doesn’t answer, too concerned with the knife currently being held to his throat. 

 

“You boys almost got away,” an oily voice chuckles in his ear, stale breath wafting over his face.

 

Deacon and Danse freeze, turning around slowly. Deacon bares his teeth in a silent snarl when he sees the blade pressing into MacCready’s pale neck. Danse just gapes. 

 

“Drop it,” Deacon growls dangerously, aiming his pistol straight between the raider’s eyes.

 

MacCready hopes he’s the only one who can see Deacon’s hand trembling slightly, but that thought is wiped from his mind when the knife presses harder and he can feel something wet trickling down his neck.

 

“You’re outnumbered, you filthy vermin,” Danse snaps. 

 

MacCready can hear the smile in the man’s voice when he speaks. “I don’t think so, beautiful.”

 

The raider gives a sharp whistle and MacCready closes his eyes in horror. They’re so  _ fucked _ . Sure enough, rapidly approaching footfalls draw closer, and when MacCready opens his eyes again, two more figures have joined their little party. The larger of the two goes for Danse, who struggles valiantly but a quick jab to the neck with what Mac assumes is a Calm-X renders him incapacitated and he slumps in the other raider’s arms. 

 

When the third raider yanks Deacon’s arms roughly behind him, MacCready finally struggles against the man holding him.

 

“Don’t fucking touch him,” he shouts against the knife, twisting in the iron-like grip.

 

“Shut up,” the raider sneers.

 

MacCready struggles harder when the raider restraining Deacon slips his hands under Deacon’s shirt, patting him down in a vulgar way. Deacon is rigid, face blank, but disgust twists his lips just the slightest. 

 

“Mm, aren’t we lucky, Cyrus,” the raider who was supporting Danse’s limp body leers, letting the synth fall to the ground, striding over to MacCready, “We got pretty ones for once.”

 

The raider named Cyrus snickers in MacCready’s ear, holding him still as the other man grabs his jaw, angling his head and licking his lips. 

 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” the man drawls, hand falling from MacCready’s jaw to his hips, dirty fingers slipping beneath his waistband. 

 

MacCready spits in his face. The man screws his face up in anger, socks Mac across the face and he sees stars. He hears Deacon swearing and growling threats before there’s the muffled sound of Deacon being punched repeatedly, at least once in the stomach MacCready thinks, judging by the way he hears the breath whoosh out of him. His blood is thrumming loudly in his ears, and he vaguely realizes he’s shaking, fury coursing through him. 

 

The raider steps away and he sees Deacon doubled over, blood dripping from his nose. The blood in his ears gets louder, the anger hotter.

 

“I’ll fucking kill you for that,” he gasps. 

 

The raiders just laugh at that. Deacon’s blue eyes meet his over the sunglasses and MacCready knows what Deacon is trying to say.  _ Stop it, Mac. It’s not worth it _ .

 

MacCready just shakes his head.  _ That’s where you’re wrong, Deeks.  _ The sight of the raiders touching Deacon -  _ hurting him _ \- makes MacCready sick. He wants to slit all their throats and laugh as they choke on their own blood. He pulls himself out of the macabre fantasy, turning his attention to their predicament at hand. 

 

“Let him go,” he orders, “Just take me. And the other one.”

 

Deacon starts to protest but is cut off by a sharp slap. MacCready sees red.

 

“And why should we do that?” the raider holding him asks, sounding bored.

 

“I’ve got caps. Lots of ‘em. Let him go and I’ll tell you where they are.”

 

The three raiders glance at each other and MacCready feels a surge of hope. They’re  _ considering _ it. 

 

“If it turns out you’re lying to us, we’ll find your boyfriend and cut his pretty head off in front of you, before we kill you.”

 

MacCready swallows hard, trying to block that image from his mind. “Understood.”

 

Deacon starts shouting then, cursing the raiders and MacCready. Mac can hardly stand the betrayal on his face.

 

“Don’t you fucking  _ dare _ ,” he yells at the two raiders that start dragging him away.

 

They just laugh and the one named Cyrus laughs loudest. “Shut him up. Make sure he can’t follow us.”

 

MacCready frantically drinks in Deacon’s face, a sinking feeling telling him it’ll be the last time he’ll see him for a long time, if ever.

 

“I love you,” he chokes out, ignoring the raider’s jeers and mockery, wishing he could think of more to say.

 

“Mac-” Deacon cries, reaching for him even as he’s being dragged away, heels kicking up dust.

 

MacCready closes his eyes, unable to look at the angry, heartbroken expression on Deacon’s face. There’s sudden silence and MacCready opens his eyes to watch as Deacon slumps to the ground, another Calm-X needle sticking out of his neck.

 

“Let’s go, loverboy,” Cyrus sneers, pushing him forward. 

 

MacCready looks back to see the big raider throwing Danse over his shoulder. The dark mass that is Deacon doesn’t stir and MacCready looks away, sorrow rising in him like a wave.   
  


 


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, there's a little bit of sexual assault/non-con in this chapter!

When Deacon wakes, the first thing he notices is how dry his mouth is. His lips are cracked and probably bleeding, his tongue feels like sandpaper. The second thing he notices is the pounding headache he has. He’s unwittingly reminded of the many hangovers he experienced in his youth. This feels like all of them rolled into one. He opens his eyes, confused at first as to why he’s eye level with the ground. He shifts into a sitting position, hissing at the sudden pain that rips through him. With the pain comes the memory of last night. He jumps to his feet, searching frantically for any sign of MacCready and Danse, but there’s nothing. He’s alone.

 

He finds their stuff rather quickly and assumes the raiders must not have seen the power armor in the dark, because in the daylight it catches the sun’s rays and throws them back, sparkling in the distance like a small sun. Deacon almost cries in happiness when he sees their guns are all still there, save for the ones the raiders took from them, as well as all their other stuff. He empties their three packs in front of him, taking the most important items from each one and adding them to his pack. He grabs his guns and MacCready’s rifle, leaving Danse’s guns behind. Then he stands in front of the power armor, considering it. He really, really doesn’t like wearing power armor. It’s loud and clunky, impossible to move silently in, and it makes him stick out like a sore thumb. But, he’s all alone out here, no more Mac and Danse to watch his back, and while he’s probably handled similar situations that he can’t recall at the moment, he wonders if it’s better to cover his ass - literally - and take the power armor. In the end, the climbs in, having to adjust it to fit his smaller frame, figuring if it becomes too much of a nuisance, he’ll ditch it for some lucky caravan to find. 

With the easy part out of the way, Deacon pauses, finally realizing he doesn’t have the slightest clue where the raiders have taken MacCready and Danse. He tries to think it through to the logical conclusion. The largest group of raiders, the ones they had initially seen, had been coming from the north. From what Deacon saw of them, and Cyrus and his men, they weren’t carrying anything that would signify they were traveling, meaning that their base should be relatively close. So, with nothing more to go on than that, Deacon heads north, trying not to imagine what could have happened to MacCready by now.

\- 

By late afternoon, he’s sweltering. Deacon has no idea how Danse walks around in this suit all day, it’s like a portable sauna and Deacon is swimming in sweat. He can’t imagine how he smells. None of that matters to him, though. All he can think about, all he has been thinking about for what seems like hours, is Mac. He can’t stop replaying the past night’s events in his head. The look on Mac’s face when the raiders touched Deacon. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the other man that angry before. And when he told Deacon he loved him as they were being literally ripped away from each other - Deacon has to stop for a moment to catch his breath, panic rising in his chest. He can’t believe he let MacCready down. He can’t believe he’s not there to protect him. Unbidden images rush in of Mac’s lifeless body impaled on a pole, his severed head dangling from a chain - 

Deacon pauses to dry heave and panic and cry a little bit. He stares at the sun for a little while, wonders how it is that he’s standing somewhere in Pennsylvania in ex-Paladin Danse’s power armor, tears streaming down his face. Deacon is usually slightly preoccupied by his self-hatred at all times, although it’s been quieter lately since he’s had Mac, but this is a new low, even for him. He can’t fucking believe he let those assholes take MacCready. What the hell was wrong with him? How had he not heard them?

Deacon is so caught up with these questions that he almost doesn’t notice the stuffed monkey perched on the antiquated car across from him. When it raises its head, however, Deacon stops short before ducking into an alleyway. He peers around the corner, dispatching the cymbal monkey with a silenced shot. He shoulders Mac’s rifle, using it to examine the immediate area down the path. He’s in some abandoned town, one of those places where you could pass through in five minutes if you didn’t stop. He hasn’t seen a living soul since he entered the town, just skeletal cars and blank-faced houses. Now though, he sees what he didn’t before. Up ahead he spots a couple of handmade trip wires and if he listens hard, he thinks he hears the puttering of a turret. Hope leaps in his chest, an unusual feeling. Was it possible he’d found the raiders already? Deacon still didn’t see anyone but that didn’t mean he’s alone.

He slides out of the power armor further back in the alleyway, as hidden from view as possible. Then he starts forward, expertly disarming the tripwires and dodging the occasional tin can chimes or grenade bouquet. He rounds a corner and stops dead in his tracks. He’s facing a large building - an old warehouse from the looks of it. What catches his eye, though, are the bodies impaled on the nearby gates and the whirring turrets, the crudely spray painted signs warning others to keep out. Deacon really wishes he could, Unfortunately for him, though, he knows he’s found the raider camp.

\- 

Deacon pulls his disguise on with shaking fingers, the most generic raider getup he brought with him. He has no idea if this will work - there’s a good chance there aren’t enough raiders in this specific party that he’ll be able to blend in, but he has to try something. Deacon knows there’s a very good chance that he’ll die in there but if it means he gets to see MacCready one last time it’s worth it. Deacon knows himself well, knows he’s not a strong man, knows he won’t survive losing Barbara and Mac. He’s got nothing to lose and a man with nothing to lose is a dangerous man. 

He tries to lose himself in the disguise, having learned long ago that it’s easier to sell yourself when you almost believe what you’re selling is the real deal. He straightens his back, lights a cigarette, fixes his sunglasses firmly in place, and swaggers towards the door. Thankfully, the turrets don’t seem to think he was a threat, and Deacon is able to make it to the door unscathed. He only hesitates a moment before yanking it open and striding into the dimly lit interior.

He finds himself in a long corridor lined with doors. He starts slowly down, peering into each room as he goes. Most are filled with cots and rickety tables with half-busted chairs. A couple, though, are bloodbaths. Deacon looks away, stomach churning. Once he reaches the end of the hall and stands facing the last door, this one solid metal, he takes a deep breath, trying to steady his pounding heart. He tugs it open quietly, slipping through and looking around. He’s in a cavernous room, mostly empty save for a large semi-circle of couches and chairs facing a small makeshift stage. A decent sized group of men and women are lounging in the seats, smoking and talking. No one looks up when Deacon enters and he lets himself breathe a small sigh of relief. He sticks to the shadows at the corner of the room, trying to stay hidden but not appear suspicious. Slowly, he sinks down in a chair at the edge of the group, plastering a bored expression on his face. A few of the raiders look over at him curiously but no one speaks to him. With a start, Deacon recognizes two of the men as the ones that had restrained him and Danse. He looks hurriedly away, hoping against hope that his leathers and wig was enough for the raiders not to recognize him. They barely glance at him though, before turning their attention back to the empty stage. There’s a palpable air of excitement, of waiting. Deacon isn’t sure he wants to know what for. When the lights dim and an exaggerated voice booms through hidden speakers somewhere, Deacon is proven right.

“Now ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for our newest guests?”

The raiders cheer, raising their drinks to the stage.

“All the way from the Commonwealth, these two men have traveled a long way for your entertainment!”

More cheers and Deacon has to bite back against the wave of nausea that steals over him. The lights flick off, plunging them into darkness, lit only by the glow of a couple cigarettes. Deacon can barely make out shapes on the stage moving in the darkness. He clamps down hard on his tongue when the lights turn back on.

MacCready and Danse are facing the crowd, down on their knees, gagged and bound. Danse has a black eye and a busted lip, his eyes far-away and dead looking. MacCready has a large cut over one eyebrow and dried blood across his face and dripping down his nose, but looks otherwise unharmed. Deacon feels a rush of pride when he sees the familiar fire in Mac’s eyes, nothing like Danse’s thousand-yard stare. That’s it, babe. Never break, not for them.

“Alright,” the voice booms, “Let’s start the bidding.”

Deacon jerks unconsciously at the words. Bidding? That didn’t sound good. 

“Let’s start the bidding at twenty caps. Who’ll give me twenty caps?”

Deacon watches in mute horror as the raiders begin raising their hands and calling out higher and higher numbers.

“Forty caps, going once, going twice, sold to Brandy!”

A savage looking woman rises to her feet, grinning in a way that twists Deacon’s gut. He forces himself to stay still as she slowly approaches the stage. Standing in front of the two men, she glances between them. Danse refuses to meet her eyes, staring instead at the far wall blankly. MacCready, on the other hand, meets her cold gaze, eyes blazing defiantly. Deacon feels another surge of pride momentarily override his fear. Until the woman smiles at MacCready, revealing yellow teeth.

“You’re not as pretty as the other one,” she leers, “But you’ll be more fun to break.”

Jeers from the crowd and Deacon holds onto his seat for dear life. He wants to look away but he can’t. Deacon glimpses the slightest flicker of fear cross MacCready’s face but it’s quickly replaced by a look he knows on Mac’s face better than fear, and he’s sure if he could see Mac’s lips, he’d be scowling. It gives Deacon the strength to watch as the woman, Brandy, pulls her arm back and slaps Mac hard across the face. A large red handprint blooms across his pale face and Deacon has to close his eyes briefly. When he opens them, MacCready is staring at the woman again with a look of pure hatred written clearly across his face. She smiles wider, this time curling her hand into a fist before slamming it into Mac’s stomach. He doubles over silently and Deacon feels his own gut clench. He braces himself for more but Brandy is taking her seat again, looking pleased.

“Well that was a good start!. Let’s move on to the next round,” calls the announcer, “You all know how this works! Let’s begin round two! Who’ll give me fifty caps?”

Deacon watches again as the raiders fight for the right to lay their hands on Mac - his Mac- and Danse. In the end, a burly looking man wins the round. He steps up to the platform grinning and immediately goes to Danse. Deacon watches, sickened, as the man removes a short knife and runs it sensually down the side of Danse’s face. Danse shudders at the contact, eyes remaining fixed on the wall. With a twist of his wrist, the man cuts a large stripe down Danse’s face. Danse jerks away and the raiders guffaw. Another flick of the wrist and this time a red stripe appears through Danse’s filthy jumpsuit. Two more follow before the raiders angrily call the man back and he sat back down petulantly. 

“Okay, we’ve had our first blood!” the announcer shouts, “Who’s up next? Let’s begin at a hundred caps!”

The bidding is quicker this time, more cutthroat, the price driven up to nearly two hundred caps before a young man wins, strutting up with a large grin plastered across his face. He stands in front of MacCready and Danse, stroking his chin in mock consideration before walking over to MacCready and yanking him roughly up by the back of his neck. Deacon feels fury, white-hot, thrum through him. He wants to cut that fucking smile right off the raider’s face. Instead, he watches the raider circle behind MacCready and lick a wide stripe up the side of his neck. Disgust roils in Deacon’s stomach but he knows it’s nothing compared to how MacCready msut be feeling. 

“What should I do with you, love?” the raider muses quietly, slipping a hand under Mac’s shirt to grip at his thin hips. 

Deacon pinches himself as the room swims dizzyingly in his view. He watches in horror as the man slips a grimy hand down the front of MacCready’s pants, fist moving rhythmically under the fabric. MacCready closes his eyes, a flush rising on his cheeks and Deacon can almost feel the shame radiating off him. He silently vows to Mac that he’ll cut that raider’s fingers off one by one when he gets to him.

“Having performance anxiety, love?” the raider snickers, “Shame. Whoever gets you next won’t be as gentle as me.”

Shouts from the raiders in agreement. The man grins at them, drawing his hand out of MacCready’s pants.

“I should get my money’s worth and shove my cock down your throat-”

Deacon’s hand twitches towards his gun.

“-but you look like you might bite it off.”

Uproarious laughter from the crowd. The man glances over at Danse.

“He might not though.”

Deacon closes his eyes, resisting the urge to dry heave. 

“You only get one, Marcus!” another raider shouted angrily, “You wasted your turn, get off the stage!”

The other raiders cheer in agreement, and Marcus rolled his eyes, giving MacCready’s crotch one last squeeze before jumping off the stage.

“We’re almost to the main event, folks!” shouts the announcer and Deacon had a nasty feeling he knows what the “main event” is, “Whose turn is it next? Let’s start the bidding at three hundred and fifty caps!”

Deacon waits until the last second to raise his hand, trying to control his shaking.

“Five hundred and fifty caps,” he says lazily, out-betting the previous raider by almost a hundred caps.

Every eye in the room is on him, but Deacon’s eyes areon MacCready. Mac looks up sharply at his voice, blue eyes widening in shock. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Danse’s head jerk up to stare at him as well. 

“Well that’s a lot of caps!” roars the announcer, “Five-hundred and fifty caps going once, going twice-”

“Six hundred.”

Deacon glares at the raider who is smirking at him. 

“Six hundred going once-”

“Seven hundred,” Deacon counters.

The raiders smirk fades and he looks at Deacon sourly but doesn’t offer any more caps.

“Seven hundred caps! Going once, going twice, sold!”

Deacon gets shakily to his feet, tossing his bag of caps to the raider holding his hand out impatiently. He feels MacCready and Danse’s eyes on him as he slowly walks to the stage. He tried to leer at the two men but he isn’t sure it doesn’t come out as a grimace. He circles around the two of them like the other raiders had done, pretending he was sizing them up. He pauses behind MacCready, surreptitiously sliding a small knife out of his sleeve and slicing the ropes holding MacCready’s hands behind his back. 

“I bet whoever let you out of their sight feels pretty bad right now,” Deacon drawls, trying to distract the raiders as he pretends to feel up MacCready, all the while sliding a small pistol into the back of his waistband. 

MacCready makes a choked noise in the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Deacon gives Mac’s hip one last squeeze before striding over to Danse and repeating the whole act. 

“Make up your mind!” a raider yells at him. 

Deacon shrugs. “Your funeral.”

The raiders stare at him quizzically, and Deacon takes advantage of their confusion to rip a pin out of a grenade behind his back before chucking it at the group, pulling MacCready and Danse backwards with him as the raiders scramble to get out of the way. The three of them throw themselves to the ground, covering their heads as the blast tears through the room. A second later they’re on their feet, squinting through the dust and smoke to aim at the surviving raiders. Across the room, a door bursts open, more raiders spilling through. Deacon swears, putting a bullet through the woman - Brandy’s - head. She slumps to the floor, lifeless, and Deacon feels a sick sense of satisfaction, 

Deacon, Mac, and Danse are able to make short work of the raiders, as ill-trained and lightly armed as they are. Only when Danse raises his rifle to fire at Marcus does Deacon lower his gun.

“Not him,” he calls to Danse who glances over in confusion, “He’s mine.”

Deacon sees a flash of fear cross Marcus’s face and he grins triumphantly. When the last raider falls, Deacon strides over to where Marcus is being restrained by Danse, ignoring MacCready calling after him. Marcus glares at him silently and Deacon almost admires him for not pleading for his life like the rest of the raiders had. Almost. Deacon yanks his knife out of his belt, grabbing one of the raider’s hands roughly.

“What the fuck, man?” the raider screams as Deacon presses the knife to his index finger.

“Yeah, what the hell, Deacon?” MacCready demands, pulling at the hand holding the knife.

Deacon pushes Mac away. “You’re gonna lose every single one of your fingers for touching him,” Deacon snarls, slicing through flesh and bone in one swift motion.

Marcus cries out in agony as his finger falls to the floor. Danse doesn’t let go of him but he looks away in disgust. MacCready shouts in surprise.

“Deacon, what’s wrong with you?”

Deacon ignores him, knife already cutting through the raider’s middle finger. Marcus seems to pass out for a moment, slumping in Danse’s grip.

“Wake up, you bastard,” Deacon growls, smacking Marcus across the face with the butt of his pistol.

“Deacon, stop.”

Deacon pauses at the soft command, the gentle hand on his shoulder. The red fades from his vision slightly as he turns to Mac.

“I can’t,” he said roughly, “Not after what he did to you. How he touched you.”

MacCready smirks but he looks tired. “How sweet. But c’mon, Deacon. As much as I think he should suffer, this isn’t you. You aren’t the guy that tortures people. You’ll regret it later.”

Deacon wavers. He still has cold fury pumping through him but a distant part of him knows that MacCready is right. 

“Deeks,” MacCready murmurs, pulling the knife from his grip.

Deacon relents but before Marcus can feel any relief, Deacon aims his pistol and shoots him through the eyes. Danse hisses in disgust as gray matter splatters over him and he shoves the dead raider away from him. Mac’s jaw is hanging open slightly but he shuts it when Deacon turns to him.

“Are you okay?” Deacon demands, “Both of you.”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” MacCready smiles, “Thanks for saving us.”

“I always knew I was destined to be a knight in shining armor.”

Then the realization that MacCready is safe and standing in front of him again crashes down on Deacon and he crosses the distance between them in one long stride, pulling the smaller man to him in a bone-crushing hug.

“So worried,” he murmurs into Mac’s hair, “I was so worried about you. I’m so sorry I let that happen to you.”

MacCready pushes at him with a scowl. “You didn’t let anything happen, Deacon. Don’t even start apologizing for whatever you think you did or didn’t do.”

“They took you!” Deacon shouts, “And I didn’t do anything about it!”

Danse snorts and both men turn to look at him. 

“Yes?” Deacon asks through gritted teeth.

“He said you’d do this,” Danse smirks, jerking his head at MacCready, “Blame yourself.”

MacCready chuckles, nuzzling into Deacon’s side. “C’mon. Can’t we just appreciate that we’re all safe and together again?”

Deacon sighs, wrapping his arms tightly around Mac. “Of course we can.”

Mac tips his face up, silently asking for a kiss and Deacon can’t say no, leans his head down to press his lips softly against the other man, ignoring Danse shifting uncomfortably. 

“So happy you’re safe,” he whispers against MacCready’s lips, feels them twist into a smile.

“I told you, you can’t get rid of me that easily.”


End file.
